


Dammit Barton! - The Avengers' Cat

by pippen2112



Series: Dammit Barton Series [4]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Coulson Lives, Disaster and Hilarity, Excessive use fo the word "Fuck", Gen, Humor, Nudity (chapter 3), Pranks and Practical Jokes, Progressive amounts of crack, Team Dynamics, The Avengers get a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins with the Cat.  Well, actually it begins with a team of extraordinary people, as Fury put it, but that was well before the Avengers saved the world from an invasion of semi-cyborg aliens, and before Stark Tower became the Avengers Tower, and even before Coulson, first name Agent, came back from the dead and his assets almost killed him for dying in the first place.  So yes, it begins with a team, but the Cat is where the story takes off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So It Begins

It begins with the Cat.  Well, actually it begins with a team of extraordinary people, as Fury put it, but that was well before the Avengers saved the world from an invasion of semi-cyborg aliens, and before Stark Tower became the Avengers Tower, and even before Coulson, first name Agent, came back from the dead and his assets almost killed him for dying in the first place.  So yes, it begins with a team, but the Cat is where the story takes off.

The day in question is thoroughly unremarkable.  Except that it’s stormy which is important because if it hadn’t been stormy, the Cat, or rather the Kitten at this point, wouldn’t have been slowly drowning in its back-alley home or mewing pathetically for someone to save it.  Also, if it hadn’t been stormy, Thor wouldn’t have gone out to get more Cookies and Crème Pop tarts, his rainy day snack, because someone (i.e. the Man of Iron) had eaten them all without getting more.  But as chance would have it, the demigod take a shortcut down the aforementioned alley, overhears a pitiful mewl from behind a nearby dumpster and goes to investigate.

What Thor finds is a four-and-a-half pound ball of wet ginger fur and two absurdly large, pleading green eyes.  Without a second thought, he tucks the Kitten into his jacket, holding it close to his chest to keep it warm, and hurries back to the Tower.

Thor finds the team semi-assembled in the living room.  Steve, Natasha and Clint all sit on the sofa as Coulson tries to run a briefing.  Only Steve pays attention to their handler; Natasha and Clint watch TV over Coulson’s shoulder, sharing a bowl of popcorn and flicking the occasional piece at different parts of the room.  Bruce and Tony stand near the kitchen, holding presumably fresh cups of tea and coffee respectively.  Thor quickly takes a throw from the back of the sofa, shucks off his wet jacket and wraps the shivering kitten in the blanket.

“What’s that?” Bruce asks mildly.

“It is a baby kitten I found while wandering in the rain,” Thor replies.

Suffice it to say, the team is not impressed.

 “Thor, you can’t just bring every stray you find back to the Tower,” Tony gripes when Thor presents the kitten to the rest of the Avengers. 

Thor scoffs at his teammate.  “Man of Iron, how could you not want to help such an adorable and lost soul?”

Bruce snorts into his tea as Thor holds the mewling animal swaddled in a blanket like a newborn babe.  Tony raises an unimpressed eyebrow and Thor moves toward Steve, Natasha, and Clint who watch the confrontation from the comfort of the sofa, a bowl of popcorn shared amongst them.

“Captain, surely you must agree with me.”

Steve shifts uneasily in his seat, and Clint pegs him in the forehead with a piece of popcorn.  Natasha promptly smacks him in the back of the head.

“I don’t know,” Steve says warily.  “I’ve never been too fond of cat.  They give me the willies.”

Thor kneels in front of his seated comrades and pushes the kitten into Steve’s arms.  “Then you must bond with the creature to overcome these ‘willies.’  Lord Yngvarr the High is quiet patient.”

Unsure of what to do, Steve awkwardly holds the blanket-wrapped bundle and the kitten stares at him with its absurdly large green eye.  Those eyes only make the Captain squirm more.

“Lord Yngvarr the High?” Tony asks.  “That’s its name?”

“It is a mighty name for a mighty warrior.”

“That thing can’t weigh more than two pounds.  It’s a ridiculous name for a cat.”

“Size does not matter,” Thor protests.  “He will grow.”  (That’s the first of many unintentional lies the Cat causes).

Thor turns back to Steve.  Steve’s holding the kitten at arm’s length and looks like he can’t decide whether or not he’d be justified in dropping it.  Clint chuckles at that and the barest hint of a smile touches Natasha’s cheeks.  Thor looks at his friend imploringly.

Steve sighs.  “You can keep it if I don’t have to touch it.”

Thor beams “Very well, Captain,” he bellows as he takes the kitten back in his arms. “It shall be done.” (That’s lie number two).

The demigod turns to Natasha.  She fixes him with her impervious gaze.

“Will you feed it?” she asks.

“Of course.” (Lie number three).

“Will you clean up its messes?”

“Of course.” (Lie number four).

“Will you keep it out of my room?”

“Yes, Lady Widow.” (Lie number five, though admittedly that one was not Thor’s fault).

“Then I don’t care,” Natasha replies as she turns back to the TV.

Clint chuckles; a strained, half-smile wrinkles Coulson’s eyes.  “Well,” Coulson says as he strolls toward where Thor stands, “strictly speaking S.H.I.E.L.D. has no provisions concerning employee pets unless they become involved in international incidents.”

“Lord Yngvarr the High would never commit such an action,” Thor protests, protectively holding the kitten to his chest. (Lie number six, also not entirely Thor’s fault, but he did bring Loki to visit so… it could go either way).

Coulson grins and extends his hand to stroke gently across the kitten’s head.  “Oh I believe you.  And besides,” he says as he pulls the kitten from Thor’s grasp and pulls away some of the swaddling to let the kitten move more, “she is too cute to do any real harm.” (Lie number seven).

Every member of the team stares at Coulson in astonishment (apart from Natasha who has a knowing glint in her gaze).  Coulson simply shrugs.  “Yes, I am a cat guy.  So sue me.”

“You shouldn’t suggest it,” Tony babbles as he drinks from his mug.  “I just might.”

Thor chuckles and turns toward Clint, the last of the Avengers to convince.  At the moment, Clint is watching the kitten paw at the blanket in a meager attempt to escape.  Its wide eyes hone in on the archer and the kitten mewls pleadingly.

“I don’t do cats,” Clint firmly states, his gaze locked on the kitten.  “Dammit Barton!  How can you not yield to the cuteness of this lovable face?”




The kitten is about six inches from the tip of Clint’s nose, and its teary green eyes are so big it looks like a cartoon.  Thor presses the kitten further until Clint goes cross-eyed trying to keep his eyes on it.  The kitten mews quietly and sticks out its tiny pink tongue, touching it to Clint’s nose.  

Someone in the room “aww”s at that, and after the fact, every person in the room swears it was Thor.

“Winston is staying,” Bruce says from across the room.

“I veto ‘Winston,’” Tony counters immediately.

“You didn’t want to keep the cat in the first place,” Coulson points out.  “You already removed your right to have any power over choosing the name.”

Tony huffs.  “Fine, if you can settle on a name everyone agrees with, you can keep it.”

Thor jumps up and down in the excitement and exuberance that only a twelve-year-old girl could possess, but he’s the God of Thunder so no one calls him on it.

(Later that week, a video of the incident will appear on youtube and be spammed across the S.H.I.E.L.D. servers.  The video gets upwards of 80 million hits.  No one will step forward to stake claim as the videographer, but by that point, Tony Stark in his Outrageous-Behavior-of-the-Month will make a very, very drunk proposal to Pepper in the middle of a Dateline interview and “God of Thunder loses his shit over smelly rat of a kitten” will be lost to the void of the internet).

Clint cocks an eyebrow.  “I still don’t do cats.” (Lie number eight).

“We’ll see,” Natasha quips without looking away from the television.

 

  #

 Surprisingly, the team can’t agree on a name for the kitten.  Thor doesn’t let up on the name Lord Yngvarr the High but that gets shot down numerous times, most adamantly by Tony asking “How the fuck do you spell that?  Seriously?”

Steve puts in his vote for something simple like Spot or Chance.  You know, something easy to remember.  Coulson quickly points out that those are dog names, and the kitten is probably confused enough for a tiny ball of fluff.

Natasha perpetually insists that she doesn’t give a flying fuck about what name the team chooses, so fucking choose a name already! However, she does veto every name Tony throws into the mix because a, he has no proper say in the matter and b, Optimus Prime, Wishbone, Tinkerbell, Watson, Simba, and Stormagedon: Dark Lord of All, are all ridiculous names for a kitten.

Bruce likes Winston, but he’s willing to acknowledge that the kitten needs to be about twenty-five pounds heavier with a bushy mustache, a cigar, and a monocle to properly embody the name.  He’s probably the most flexible member of the team.

Clint mostly stays away from the proceedings, occasionally walking into the kitchen to grab food after a workout or archery practice.  When he does walk in on the team bickering mercilessly over the merits of different names, Coulson mitigating the discussion, Clint will throw in a suggestion like Little Rat or Flea-bag.  Coulson always shoots him Death Glare Number 3 and hisses “Dammit Barton,” and Clint scurries away for fear of having paperwork thrown at him.

After three days of negotiation, they’re no closer to settling on a name than they were at the beginning and while Thor and Natasha are screaming over some absurd detail, Coulson pipes in a break “Why not just call it the Cat?”

Tony scoffs that that’s unoriginal, Bruce shrugs, Steve contemplates it a moment before agreeing, Thor insists that Lord Yngvarr the High is a far superior title, and Natasha stares at Thor like she wants to rip out his tongue.  Clint’s at the archery range, so it’s clear he truly doesn’t give a fuck.

No one likes the name (except maybe Coulson), but regardless, the Cat sticks.

 

#

No one knows why Clint Barton adopted the Cat.  He doesn’t particularly give of the I’m-a-cat-guy vibe, but he also doesn’t seem to mind having his uniform covered by bright orange cat hair.  But when it became clear that Thor knew nothing about taking care of a kitten, Clint stepped in to make sure the little rat at least had food and a place to poop.

The first night, he walks out of his bathroom and finds the kitten curled up on his pillow.  Barton sighs before grabbing the animal and tossing it out into the hall.  The kitten looks up at him with those pitiful green eyes, but Barton turns away and closes his door.

The second night, Clint finds the kitten perched atop his weapons locker, though he can’t quite figure out what acrobatic maneuver it had to do to get up there.  Still, it’s not staying.  He picks the cat up deftly and once more puts it out into the hall.  Barton sighs when he inadvertently meets the kitten’s teary gaze. 

“How the fuck are you doing puppy dog eyes?”

The kitten mewls in response.  Clint closes the door.

Clint is sent out on a mission to Somalia for the next two weeks (He asks Steve to feed the kitten while he’s away, because he doesn’t really trust any of the others to remember).  It’s hot and sandy and generally unpleasant.  Particularly since the op runs a week longer than anticipated because his target is a paranoid agoraphobic diplomat who thinks he sees enemy agents on every street corner.  Silly diplomat-turned-arms-dealer. He should have been watching the rooftops instead.

When Clint gets back to the tower, it’s late, he’s covered in debriefing-grime, and he’d give his left eye for a shower with proper water pressure.  Luckily, his bathroom is already equipped with that.

After an almost ungodly amount of time spent under a steamy spray of water, Clint returns to his bedroom to find one of his combat boots lying on the ground  beside his closet, a good three feet from where he left it.  He sneaks away consciously and takes the bow and arrow he keeps beside his nightstand (yes, he is paranoid) and nocks an arrow, waiting for the intruder to show himself.

The boot moves again, jumping a few inches, and a soft mew sounds.  Clint’s brow furrows, and he watches as the kitten peaks over the tongue and blinks at him. 

Clint relaxes and he can’t stop himself from grinning.  He sets down his bow, picks up the kitten and sets it on his bed.  He pulls back the covers and settles in for the night.  Before he turns the light out, he gives the kitten a stern look and mutters “Just for tonight.”

The kitten sidles up next to Clint and nudges his hand with its nose.  It purrs loudly when Clint gives in and strokes under its chin.

When the kitten wakes him up at 5 in the morning, scratching at the door and mewling urgently, Clint grins as he sleepily opens the door.  The kitten weaves in between his legs before it scampers out into the dark hallway. 

No one knows why Clint Barton adopts the Cat…except maybe JARVIS who watched the whole scene silently, but it’s not his place to say so.  And if the security footage of the hallway that night disappeared from Stark’s mainframe, well, JARVIS isn’t going to mention it.


	2. Three Suits and Captain America's Chair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for the shoddy proofreading and whatever typos exist in this chapter.

The Cat makes itself at home in the Avengers’ Tower, though most of the residents are wary of it.  After it imbedded it’s claws in Thor’s face (in the Cat’s defense, the demigod had been trying to give it a bath at the time), nipped at Steve’s ankles whenever he walked past, always found a way to follow Tony into the bathroom (even though he demanded that JARVIS restrict the animal’s movements), peed in Bruce’s lab, gave Natasha hives (who could have guessed S.H.I.E.L.D.’s favorite ninja was allergic to cats), and shat on Clint’s quiver, the team tends to give it a wide berth (i.e. threatens to kill it before Pepper wisely pointed out that charges of animal abuse would be a PR nightmare).

 

So, when Clint stumbles back into the kitchen after finishing a two hour run and finds Coulson sitting in front of a reality show with the Cat asleep in his lap, Clint can't help but quirk a brow in baffled surprise and begrudging admiration of the man.  
  
"You know," Clint calls as he pulls a bottle of water out of the fridge, "the briefing ended about three hours ago."  
  
"I know," Coulson replies calmly.  
  
"Didn't know you liked us that much, sir."  
  
"I don't."  
  
Clint looks up.  Coulson's not looking at him.  His eyes are fixes on the slumbering creature in his lap, at rest after a long day of plotting to take over the world.  At least, that's what Clint imagines the little rat doing all day long.   
  
Coulson is the only person who warms to the Cat.  Normally that wouldn’t surprise anyone who knew him, except that the Cat had lured Phil in with its big watery eyes before it began the onslaught.  To date, the Cat has ruined three of Coulson’s finest suits in varyingly sadistic manners.  The first, his favorite black Dolce & Gabana, fell victim to the kitten’s ill-adjustment to proper cat food and was thus covered in varying proportions of piss, vomit, poop and an non-cleanable noxious odor.  When the dry cleaner told him that they could do no more to save his suit, Phil gave his old friend an emotional farewell: he lingered for three seconds beside the dumpster he disposed it in before returning to his apartment, watching _Apocalypse Now_ , and going to bed.

 

The second suit, a similar D&G 3-button charcoal instead of his usual black, met its fate one rainy day when the Cat darted out of its carrier in the vet’s office and out into the rainy slop outside.  Coulson raced five blocks after it, soaking the thick fabric through.  He returned to the clinic with the Cat shivering against his chest, but his suit was not so lucky.  Phil couldn’t get it to the cleaner in time; he donated the buttons to his tailor because he had no more use for them.

 

The third suit, the somewhat whimsical navy pinstripe he’d been “buried” in, honestly should not have fallen prey to any foul behavior by the Cat.  It had only just been released to him from S.H.I.E.L.D. custody (it would have surprised Coulson if he hadn’t written the handbook on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s confiscation policy).  Still, the suit had just been released to Phil, and he was happy to finally get it home until such a time arose when he could actually wear it (he’d tried pinstripes once before; Stark made s snide comment about standing out too much; though he lived to contradict Stark just as much as the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist lived to contradict him, that same day, Phil had taken a bullet to the knee when he should have been unseen; plus he hates making the same mistake twice). 

 

One thing led to another, and Coulson found himself at Avengers’ Tower settling a dispute over whether ice-skating or rollerblading demanded more skill (honestly, he deserved to be paid more for dealing with this shit).  No sooner had he set the suit-containing garment bag down than Thor had bellowed about how gliding on ice and battling bilgeshnipe was a common past time for Asgardians and thus could not require nearly as much skill as the impossible feat of remaining upright on four in-line wheels.  His bellow startled the Cat out of it nap and it bolted across the room, landing on the garment bag, digging in its claws and ripping long tears through the bag and into the cloth below. 

 

The suit coat was beyond repair.  It was probably for the best.  He wasn’t quite tall enough for pinstripes anyway.

 

So, all things considered, Phil Coulson should have a hit out on said feline, should want to skin the animal alive and hang it pelt on the wall to declare his victory.  He should, but he doesn’t.

  
Instead, Coulson lets the Cat curl up in his lap during briefings at the Tower.  He strokes idly along its jaw and down its back until the Cat purr so loudly its body shakes.  And when it inevitably falls asleep there, Coulson takes extra care not to jostle the kitten awake and hasn't moved from his spot since the briefing ended hours ago.  
  
Clint downs half the bottle of water and saunters toward the TV.  Coulson doesn't say a work, but he's also the type to prefer companionable silence to needless chatter.  Clint wants to say something about the crappy show, or the upcoming op, or the fact that Coulson is (quite literally) pussy-whipped, but he doesn't.  Instead he's staring at the five-pound ball of fluff in Coulson's lap that's contorted itself into a weird stretch as it's slept.  For about half a second, the word "adorable" registers in Clint's mind before he forcefully shakes it away.  
  
"I see that thing's got you pussy-whipped already."  
  
To his surprise (read relief), Coulson chuckles at that.  The Cat shifts at the sound, but continues sleeping.  
  
"Dammit Barton," Coulson whispers (almost affectionately, Clint notes).  "Let me have one charge that isn't seeking to undermine my authority."  
  
Clint's mouth is half-open with a retort before Coulson comments "Or I will tase you."  
  
Wisely, Clint shuts up.  
  
He also can't help but respect the cat a little more for wrapping Coulson around its cute little paw, but he'd never admit it.

 

#

 

For some non-understandable reason, the Cat is pretty much afraid of everyone.  Or, at least, to Thor it’s non-understandable.  To everyone else, it makes sense.  The Avengers are a team of unruly superheroes who are at their most dangerous when bored and left to their own devices.  Throw a tiny feline into the mix, and bad things are bound to happen. 

 

Which is why they have downtime rules.  They aren’t too restrictive, and most of them pertain to not leaving Thor and Tony unsupervised around various apparatus of destruction like C-4, robotic drones, Thor’s hammer or alcohol. 

 

Some rules are for the greater good (Rule 5: The Avengers are not allowed to throw karaoke parties for S.H.I.E.L.D. employees and demand that Fury join in on any classic rock ballad).  Some seemed silly at the time but where significant in the long run (Rule 19 A: Agent Romanov is not allowed to get Agent Barton drunk on Valentine’s Day; Rule 19 B: Barring alien invasion or catastrophic events, Agent Barton is not allowed possession of his bow on Valentine’s Day).  And some, you had to be there to understand their origin (Rule 1: The first rule of S.H.I.E.L.D. is you do not talk about S.H.I.E.L.D.; Rule 2: The second rule of S.H.I.E.L.D. is you don’t not talk about S.H.I.E.L.D.) …Okay maybe Rules 1 and 2 make sense but some rule, like Rule 53 (REWRITE RULE: No peppy 80’s music can be played within 25 feet of Stark while he is over-caffeinated) and Rule 68, Section C (REWRITE RULE: Flash mobs are forbidden anywhere near the R&D department, particularly when set to Lady Gaga), are just bizarre. 

 

Still, after the Scrambled Egg Fiasco of Halloween 2012 (as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents refer to it), no one disregards Rule 31: No one takes Captain America’s chair.  Unfortunately, no one mentioned that rule to the Cat.  Which is why, when Steve comes in from a particularly strenuous day of training and just wants to watch a few episodes of _I Love Lucy_ in his armchair before he hauls himself off to bed, he finds the tiny, obscenely adorable kitten asleep in the center of his plushy, just right chair.

 

Steve cocks his head at the kitten and briefly contemplates trying to pick it up.  That idea gets trashed quickly.  After Thor tried to give it a bath, the Cat is particularly averse to being held.  Thus far, only Coulson and Barton have had any luck at holding it, the former because his default state of mind is calm, the latter because physical pain doesn’t bother him so much. 

 

Not that Steve isn’t bothered by pain.  He’s Captian-fucking-America.  He’s a super soldier.  He’s tough shit.  But… frankly cats give him the willies.  They stare at you with their big eyes and look like they’re plotting how to kill you.  It’s discomforting at the very least, which is probably why he’s a dog person. 

 

The problem remains: the Cat is in his chair.  Logically, Steve knows he could sit on the couch, but he’s also got a track record of falling asleep on said couch and waking up with a crick in his neck (because yes, even tough shit super soldiers like Captain-fucking-America get sore from staying in one position too long).  Honestly, right now he really needs Barton to walk by in route to… whatever the Hawk does with his free time so Steve can reclaim his chair and unwind.

 

“You called?”

 

Speak of the devil.  How Barton does it, Steve doesn’t know (frankly he doesn’t really want to know), but he’ll reap the benefits of Barton’s apparently magical being-exactly-where-he’s-needed-at-the-perfect-moment skills. 

 

Steve turns toward the source of Barton’s voice, but his face falls when he sees the archer has his phone pressed to his ear as he opens the pantry, looking for a snack.  Barton’s arm extends toward the box of Pop Tarts when he freezes mid-reach.

 

“You never ask me for favors,” he murmurs into the phone.

 

Barton’s brow furrows at the response he gets.  Then, slowly, a broad smirk spreads across his face.  “I’m busy,” he goads.

 

Whoever’s on the other end of the line must be desperate because Steve can hear the sharp increase in their volume as they undoubtedly scream into their phone.  Barton’s body vibrates in an almost silent laugh as he takes a Pop Tart and slips it into his pocket.

 

“I’m not lying!”  Barton replies in mock offense as he strides over to the refrigerator.  “I have an appointment with a bubble bath and the Complete Short Stories of Franz Kafka.  Do you really want to come between me and my Kafka time?”

 

Barton retrieves a can of whipped cream from the door as well as a container of last night’s leftovers (an authentic Indian curry Bruce concocted), a fresh cucumber, and the bottle of communal vodka the team keeps in the freezer.  Much to Steve’s confusion, Barton’s smirk has turned into a borderline maniacal grin.  He half expects the archer to start cackling at a moment’s notice.

 

“Fine, I’ll help, but you owe me… No, you owe me a legit favor, like a break-out-of-jail-free-no-questions-asked favor.”

 

With those final words, Barton ends the call and makes for the elevator.

 

Steve quickly calls, “Hey Barton?”

 

“Sorry Cap, can’t help,” Barton replies as he steps into the elevator, arms filled with various food stuffs.  “Gotta see a guy about an aardvark.  Be back in an hour.”

 

The elevator doors slide closed leaving Steve alone with the Cat once more.  “Dammit Barton,” Steve murmurs to no one in particular.

 

He just stands there for half a second, wondering when he lost his nerve around tiny balls of fluff.  Rather than find an answer, Steve flops down onto the sofa, turns to TV land, and silently hopes that he doesn’t fall asleep.

 

It’s a fool’s hope.

 

“That’s so cute I think I might vomit.”

 

“Or Steve might vomit at the sight of his---“

 

“Shush, Bruce.  You’re ruining the adorable moment.”

 

“Man of Iron, I cannot tell if you are using this sarcasm you’re so fond of.”

 

“Just assume he is.  It makes conversations so much easier.”

 

“He’s waking up.”

 

The sound of subdued laughter and the dull pain in his neck wake him.  It feels like it’s only been ten minutes, but Steve logically knows it’s been well over an hour.  When he blinks the sleep out of his eyes, Steve sees his team hovering over him with various amused expressions on their faces.  At first the confusion gets the better of him, until he sees that they aren’t looking at him, they’re looking above him.

 

Very slowly, Steve reaches above his head until his fingers touch soft fur and damp hair.  There’s a light, almost affectionate, nip at Steve’s fingertip (which Thor awws at) before the kitten goes back to idly chewing on his hair. 

 

“Who put the Cat on my head?”  Steve asks.

 

“No one did,” Bruce explains.  “We found him asleep in your hair.  It’s kinda cute in a disgusting…saliva sort of way.”

 

Natasha quirks a brow at him.

 

Steve sighs.  “Can someone…remove it?”

 

Clint chuckle and carefully pulls up the Cat.  For once, it only mewls pathetically at being moved from its perch.  No claws come  into play.

 

Steve groans and prays he can make it to the bathroom and into the shower without looking in a mirror.  He really truly does not want to see what the Cat has done to his hair.

 

No one really notices when Clint strokes along the Cat’s back and mutters “So you’re finally starting to show your true colors, you little minx.”

 

The cat mews at him and cocks its head to the side.  In an instant, it’s huge green eyes aren’t so teary.  They’re sharp, curious, clever.  Clint can respect that.

 

The Cat jumps down from Clint’s arms and pads down the hallway next to him, suddenly seeming five times as large. 

 

Clint grins as he opens his bedroom door and the Cat leads him inside.  Finally, he’s found a proper ally, an ally in a tiny, adorable, cute-and-fluffy package.  He doesn’t know how he didn’t think of it sooner.

 

“Let the games begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment! Comments make me write faster and give me ideas for more random shit to throw into this story! I am pro-suggestion!


	3. The I-Know-the-Cat-is-Loki-in-Disguise Thing and the November First Debriefing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this is a little too cracky for anyone's taste, my sincerest apologies, but by the time I got to the November First Briefing, I just couldn't stop.

“The suit’s reaction time’s not yet up to snuff.  I’ll need to reconfigure the wiring with a higher grade filament.  J, how’s that new alloy looking?”

 

“It appears to be more resilient than the current alloy, sir,” the AI responds.  “But it is also twice as dense.”

 

Tony wipes the tiredness from his eyes.  “Alright, keep rendering the new model.  And I need lunch.  Order me something delicious.”

 

“Sir, it’s three o’clock in the morning.”

 

Tony ‘s brow furrows, and he double checks the time on his StarkPad.  Huh, when did that happen?

 

“My usual from the Cho’s down on 7th.  They make the best—”

 

Tony cuts himself off when he sees the Cat perched in the doorway.  It stares at him without blinking for what feels like an eternity.  He doesn’t know how to respond.

 

“Sir?” JARVIS prompts.

 

“Dumplings,” Tony says quickly.  “The Cho’s make the best dumplings.  That’ll be all J.”

 

“Certainly, sir.”

 

The Cat cranes its tiny head toward Tony like it has a question, like it doesn’t quite understand the concept of dumplings or it’s offended that Tony hasn’t laid out tea and biscuits for the occasion.

 

Tony glares at the Cat.  “You know, you may have everyone else fooled, but I know.”

 

The Cat sits a bit straighter at that.

 

“So what’re you gonna do this time?”  Tony asks, leaning about against his work bench and crossing his arms defensively.  “Without your Glowstick of Destiny, that is.”

 

The Cat cocks its head again.  Its ears twitch.  Tony could swear he can see an eyebrow quirking.

 

“Play dumb all you want, Mr. God of Lies, but I can see it.  And when you turn back into your long-haired, slimy, mostly evil self, I will be there to tell the others I told you so.”

 

The Cat gives a sort of half-shrug before turning and ambling away.  Yeah, Tony: 1.  Loki (disguised as a five-pound ball of evil fur and whiskers): 0.

 

 

#

 

It’s not entirely surprising when the Cat shows up a few nights later as Tony’s working on the repulsors.  It sits in the doorway, as per usual, looking thoroughly unimpressed with Tony’s workspace and choice of music and sense of fashion, but he’s Tony-fucking-Stark, so the Cat can just suck it…metaphorically speaking.

 

“I still don’t trust you,” Tony mutters as he blasts a warning shot a few feet away from the Cat.

 

When the dust settles, the Cat doesn’t look the slightest bit phased.  The expression plastered across its face clearly reads “Bitch, please.”  Tony doesn’t know if that impresses him or pisses him off.

 

Over the next several weeks, the pattern develops.  Tony works late.  The Cat sidles up and waits in the doorway.  Tony snarks at it.  The Cat looks unimpressed and eventually wanders off to wherever it goes when no one is around to annoy. 

 

One night, after a particularly bad day of heroing, Tony slumps over his drafting table and polishes off a bottle of whiskey.  True to form, the Cat appears in the doorway.

 

“What do you want?”

 

The Cat mewls slightly and kneads at the floor.

 

“No, I mean, what do _you_ want?  With us?  What’s your angle in all this?  I mean, it’s gotta be a long con, right, but why stick around to see it through.  Surely you’ve already got whatever you snuck in here to steal, so why not leave?”

 

Yes, Tony is drunk as a skunk in a trunk full of liquor, and yes, he is talking to his newly proclaimed arch-nemesis who refuses to abandon this feline form and face him like a man. 

 

In Tony’s defense, it was a really, _really_ bad day.

 

“Unless, somewhere inside that tiny fur-covered chest of yours you do have a heart.  Which I suppose has to be true, cause, I mean, if I’ve got a heart, you’ve got a heart, right?  You’re not so different from me.  Just a lonely kid with a cloying need for approval.”

 

Tony slumps down and sits on the floor.  He extends his hand out toward the animal in a moment of drunken realization.  Maybe an olive branch is what everyone needs right now.

 

The Cat eyes his hand warily and slowly creeps forward until its whiskers tickle his palm.

 

“Yeah,” Tony says as he slowly rubs the Cat’s head.  “We can be friends, little Loki.”

 

“That’s not Loki.”

 

The Cat hisses and bolts behind the nearest table. Tony jolts forward, loses his fragile sense of equilibrium, and promptly face-plants into the ground.  Well, that was embarrassing.

 

When he finally has the sense to roll onto his back, Tony glares in the general direction of the words, and he can just barely make out Clint Barton hanging from the ceiling.

 

“Dammit Barton, you do not sneak up on a man making peace with his cat-nemisis.”

 

Clint chuckles.  “I figured I should let you know before you embarrassed yourself.”

 

“Then you don’t know me,” Tony replies.  “I embarrass myself daily.  I’ve just learned to stop caring.”

 

Clint shrugs.  “Doesn’t change the fact that the Cat’s not Loki.  Of all of us, Thor would know, and he hasn’t said anything.”

 

Tony doesn’t have anything to say about that, which is rare because he loves having the last word; but right now, he just wants to pass out and wake up very hungry and very hung-over, ideally with one Pepper Potts taking care of him, but he’ll settle for another lecture about not drinking on an empty stomach.

 

Which, he ultimately does.

 

When he wakes up in the morning, Tony doesn’t mention the whole I-Know-the-Cat-is-Loki-in-Disguise thing to anyone.  He doesn’t have to.  Clint beat him to the punch. 

 

Luckily Thor’s away visiting Jane in New Mexico, or they would quite literally never hear the end of it.

 

 

#

 

“Clint…”

 

“Bruce…”

 

“Why are you in my closet?”

 

The question is totally warranted.  Said scientist has opened his closet door to find said archer sitting cross-legged on the floor eating from a box of Fruit Loops, the orange ball of evil fluff (more commonly known as the Cat) pouncing playfully on Bruce’s shadow.

 

“Tasha’s mad at me,” Clint comments like it makes perfect sense, but Bruce’s quirked eyebrow indicates that no, he’s going to need a little more information before he understands.  “She keeps trying to throw Denzel out the window.”

 

Bruce sighs.  “Well, if you stopped trying to assault her with the Cat, maybe she might accept its presence.  Not to mention, she is allergic to it.”

 

Clint shrugs as the Cat scampers up his chest and perches on his shoulder, it’s wide green eyes watching Bruce closely.  “Maybe,” Clint replies, “but I think she enjoys having to find sneaky ways to get to the kitchen.  Gives her spy skills a bit of practice.”

 

Bruce chuckles at that one.  He’s seen some strange relationships in his lifetime, but Clint and Natasha might just take the cake.  He cooks an elaborate dinner; she jabs him for over-seasoning it.  She saves his ass in a battle; he quips about how she’s getting soft.  They fuck like monkeys in the crawlspace above Bruce’s lab; they get bored in each other’s presence and go off to fuck someone else.  Clint makes eyes at Coulson (the agent doesn’t notice his asset’s flirtations); Natasha strips in front of Hill (the second in command most definitely notices).  The pair falls asleep in the same bed; everyone else pretends they don’t know.  And life goes on when there’s not a villain-of-the-week to distract the team.

 

Bruce helps Clint to his feet, though they both know Clint doesn’t really need the help, particularly when he springs up like a Slinky and bounces lightly on the balls of his feet.  There’s another peculiarity about Barton: though he’s known for being eerily quiet and lingering in the shadows, he always radiates a swarming mass of barely-contained chaotic energy.  Bruce suspects the potential energy that lingers under Clint’s palms is comparable to the Tessaract.  He’ll have to find a way to test that someday when saving the world or weaseling out of the blind dates Tony keeps setting up for him aren’t at the top of his priorities.

 

“So, why hide from her in my room? There have to be some better hiding places in the Tower.”

 

Clint grins as he strokes the Cat’s chin.  “There are, but she knows which places I frequent.”

 

He strides over to the bedroom door, the Cat’s eyes remain fixed on Bruce the entire time.  Clint opens the door in one fluid movement, but hesitates in the doorway.  “Plus occupied bedrooms are off-limits.”

 

“So, you’re cheating?” Bruce asks.

 

“Pretty much,” Barton smirks, but Bruce notes the mischief tugging at the corners of the archer’s mouth.  Bruce feels like he’s trapped in the middle of an inside joke, but when he opens his mouth to ask, Clint asks, “Tony’s still in the lab, right?”

 

“Yeah, but I think Pepper’s napping in there.”

 

Clint’s grin broadens further.  The only term Bruce knows that could properly describe it is “shit-eating.” 

 

The Cat nudges Barton’s ear and then jumps down and races off in the general direction of the kitchen.  Clint turns in the opposite direction and quietly murmurs, “Challenge accepted.”

 

Half a minute later, as Bruce is pulling on a pair of pants, he stops and says to no one in particular “Wait…did Barton call the Cat ‘Denzel’?”

 

(At dinner that night, Tony can barely contain his laughter at the sight of prim Pepper Potts with a Fruit Loop stuck to her forehead. Bruce glances at Clint who cocks an eyebrow as if to say “Challenge succeeded.” 

 

Honestly, Bruce does not understand the people he lives with.  It’s probably for the best though.  Pepper with a Fruit Loop for a third eye is pretty comical. 

 

The best part is that she doesn’t notice until it plops into her ice cream.  She stares at it for about three seconds, then surveys her dining companions.  Her eyes land on Clint and she nods approvingly.

 

“Dammit Barton.  Nicely done.”)

 

Bruce expects it to end there.  Unfortunately, it’s just after the Cereal Eye Incident (as Tony dubs it) that the Cat starts following Bruce.

 

On the average day, he really, truly doesn’t mind the Cat.  He’s always liked cats, but by the time he felt responsible enough to take care of an animal, the Other Guy happened, and he didn’t really want to risk throttling any animal to death just for pulling it’s claws on the furniture (or something comparable).  So Bruce enjoys the Cat’s presence for the most part, taking a moment to pet it in the morning and even changing out the litter box when Clint’s off on a mission. 

 

And after three months, he can even handle being caught under the Cat’s wide, watery gaze.  Seriously, the Cat has comically big eyes for his now barely seven pound body (the Cat just has one of those figures, Coulson joked early on as they watched the kitten scarf down a can and a half of tuna; since then, the Cat always eats like it’s his last meal, but its weight-gain is meager.  Bruce won’t lie; he’s a bit jealous of the cat in that regard).  Thor finds the Cat endearing and drops whatever he’s doing whenever the Cat fixes him with its gaze. Tony backs out of the room slowly, never taking his eyes off the animal because it reminds him just a bit too much of a certain God of Lies who nearly leveled New York and is now the Avengers’ occasional ally.  But Bruce can stare back at the Cat and continue about his day without any alteration.

 

So, when the Cat starts following Bruce, he knows he shouldn’t be concerned.  It’s normal behavior for cats of all ages, but something about how it constantly rubs up against his leg, chases after him when he moves around the Tower, and stares longingly at him through the glass door of his lab unsettles Bruce. He couldn’t explain why.  He doesn’t have enough data to figure out the Cat’s angle, and data collection is pretty impossible when you’re running for a pint-sized kitten who trips over its paws when it runs across the polished slate floors in the Tower.

 

What finally knocks sense into Bruce is the infamous November First Debriefing (no, Stark isn’t incredibly clever when it comes to naming things).  To be fair, Steve is probably the only member of the team who could possibly remember what events transpired the previous night.  Everyone else, even Thor who can hold his liquor (he is basically a god after all), got plastered on Natasha’s homemade vodka.  Furniture was broken, clothing was lost, bad decisions were made, and in the morning the Avengers were awoken by a very, very stern Coulson.

 

“Do I want to know what happened?” Coulson asks quietly as the team starts to wake. 

 

Bruce is fairly certain that answer is no.  Hell, he doesn’t want to know what happened, though he is curious about where his pants wandered off to.

 

The living area is trashed. Bottles and cups are scattered across the floor.  The main menu of The Avengers porno keeps repeating on the big screen.  There’s a weird stain by the TV that looks like urine.

 

Thor groans.  Natasha winces at the early afternoon light.  Steve looks dazed and mildly horrified. Tony jolts forward and start to vomit in an antique Ming vase.  Clint’s disappeared, but that’s not too surprising by his standards.  And Bruce, well, the last thing he remembers is Thor and Tony arguing about made-up words.

 

“No, sir,” Steve mutters as he stands.  “You definitely don’t.”

 

Coulson’s back straightens and his face tenses as his mouth purses slightly.  Oh dear, they are in trouble.

 

Now, on most days Coulson’s “I’m disappointed in you” face is enough to make the most staunch believers look away in shame, but coupled with the now-green Cat who’s perched in the crook of Coulson’s arm, the look loses its potency and everyone laughs (including Tony who is mid-puke at the time).

 

But that bit’s not really important to Bruce’s realization.  What is important is halfway through Coulson’s deadpan monologue about lack of responsibility, needless drunkenness, and all the reasons why Natasha should never be the one providing the liquor (because she can and will drink them all under the table and into a state of alcohol poisoning), the Cat jumps down from Coulson’s arms, bolts across the living room, and plants itself in Bruce’s lap.  His very-pantless, pale-brief-clad lap.  And it begins to purr and rub its face into Bruce’s crotch in a way that would be obscene…except it’s a cute little kitten…

 

The team stares in varied expression of horror, amusement, confusion, extreme apathy, and surprise.  It’s Steve who phrases the thoughts going through everyone’s head so succinctly.

 

“What. The actual. Fuck.”

 

Bruce pushes the Cat off his lap, but it just runs back toward him and continues sniffing and rubbing across his lap.  He repeats the action; this time, the Cat digs its claws in.

 

“Dr. Banner,” Coulson begins, “maybe you should stop moving.”

 

“No way,” he retorts.  “I may have said I was lonely, but I’ll take my hand for the rest of my life over a kitten rubbing my junk.”

 

“How did I not think of the Cat?”  Tony murmurs in a still-drunken stupor.  “Bruce would totally date our cat-faced, former enemy! Why am I so blind?”

 

“Man of Iron, are you proposing Lord Yngvarr the High is actually my brother?” Thor questions hopefully.

 

“Same eyes,” Tony babbles before looking back to Bruce.  “Dude, this is totally awesome! We can double date now! You, me, Pepper, and the Cat!”

 

“He’s not dating the Cat,” Clint quips from in the ventilation system.  No one’s really sure where he is, or how he got there.  “That’s illegal everywhere but Arkansas.”

 

“No, that’s illegal everywhere, Clint,” Natasha remarks. 

 

Before anyone can reply, Thor swarms forward and pulls the Cat up into his arms.  “Brother!  You came to visit us!  You need help breaking a curse! You’ve come for aid!  You do love me!”

 

The Cat yelps, and it’s claws come into play.  Thor doesn’t seem to notice as he cuddles the kitten closer, promising that he will spend more quality time with it.  Suddenly, he stops and looks over at Bruce with a quizzical expression.

 

“Dr. Banner, you wear no pants.”

 

Thank you, God of All Things Obvious. Bruce suspects a game of Truth or Dare was involved, but with Tony Stark involved, it could be anything.

 

“Does this mean you intend to court my brother?”  Thor asks.

 

“Yes, he does!”  Tony shrieks much to everyone’s hung-over-bemusement.

 

The Cat digs its claws deeper into Thor’s forearm, mewling and trying to pull away, but Thor’s grip is firm.

 

“Then I must give you fair warning, Dr. Banner,” Thor states, taking a massive step forward and pushing back to his full height.  Bruce gulps involuntarily.  “My brother is most precious to me—“

 

“Is he doing what I think he’s doing?” Clint asks with piqued interest.

 

“—He has been hurt many times by foolish men who did not feel as sincerely as he did—“  Bruce’s shoulder’s hunch forward, and he wishes he could sink into the floor.

 

“Is he doing what I think he’s doing?” Clint’s voice vibrates in the air ducts over the living room.

 

“—And if you cause him any grief or pain—“ Bruce pales as the demi-god slowly advances.

 

“IS HE DOING WHAT I THINK HE’S DOING?” Clint yelps with far too much excitement for someone who matched Thor and Natasha shot for shot just hours earlier.

 

“Dammit Barton,” Tony yells.  “No one gets to be more excited about this moment than me.  Bruce is getting the new boyfriend speech! I’m so proud!”

 

“—I will slowly remove your manhood and feed it to a bilgeschnipe who will then spawn tiny beasts who will cross the far reaches of Yggdrasill to consume all of you.”

 

At that moment, the Cat wrestles itself free from Thor’s grasp and leaps toward Bruce. It lands, claws and teeth sink into the elastic waistband, and gravity proves once more that it cannot be defeated.

 

The Cat slides down from Bruce’s body, taking his briefs with it, leaving Bruce standing in front of his teammates and handler buck ass nude once more.  Though it’s becoming a regular occurrence for him (what with the enormous-green-rage-monster problem he has), this time everyone’s eyes fall on him. 

 

While Bruce is busy blushing and grabbing a pillow off the couch for modesty, the Cat continues rubbing its face across the underwear, now pooled around Bruce’s ankles.  It purrs loud enough for the entire room to hear.

 

“Huh,” Tony murmurs as his head tilts to watch the Cat.  “Your brother really has an underwear fetish, doesn’t he?”

 

Thor cocks his head in a similar manner.  “I do not believe I’ve ever seen Loki behave in such a manner.”

 

“Hell, I’ve never seen a cat act like that,” Steve replies.

 

Coulson nods pensively.  “Unless there was catnip involved.”

 

The team collectively turns toward Coulson.  Natasha raises a skeptical eyebrow.  “Catnip?”

 

“Cat enthusiasts refer to it as kitty crack.”

 

Bruce’s brow furrows.  “But how did it get into my—“

 

He pauses mid-sentence and stares up at the vent.  It’s only then that he’s noticed exactly how quiet Clint’s been through the latter half of this conversation.  One look at Natasha’s subtly narrowed eyes confirms it.

 

“Dammit Barton.  Did it have to be the underwear?”

 

There’s a long minute of silence, but Barton offers no response. Eventually Natasha glares up at the vent and calls, “I expect freshly laundered delicates by tonight. Or else.”

 

“Yes ma’am,” Clint replies almost immediately.

 

Bruce almost chuckles at that.  At least someone has Barton on a tight leash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment! Comments make writers happy and thus write faster! I love hearing everyone's thoughts and/or suggestions! :)
> 
> Also, comments will earn you teasers... just FYI... :)


	4. The Norse Thanksgiving and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Queen of Puns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry its been so long since a chapter update. Life just sorta...errupted. Anywho, I present Chapter 4! Chapter 5 will follow shortly. As always, enjoy!

Contrary to popular belief (and the belief becomes quite popular after the rumor about the Cat’s true identity spreads through the Helicarrier), the Cat is, in fact, not Loki.  That conundrum is solved when Loki strolls into the living room of Avengers’ Tower three days before Thanksgiving wearing a mild half-grimace, half-flush and holding an un-plucked turkey the size of a German Shepherd. 

 

In response, Tony and Steve (who are arguing about the plausibility of time travel while watching _Doctor Who_ ) assume defensive positions behind the sofa; Natasha retrieves a semi-automatic rifle from behind the Monet (an addition that Pepper has been skeptical about but never mentioned); and Thor promptly drops the bowl of cookie dough he’d been snacking on and pulls his brother into a bone-crushing hug.

 

“Brother!  You have returned!” Thor squeals.  “This is a marvelous occasion!  We must feast!”

 

“Hold it, Goldilocks,” Tony quips from the safety of the sofa.  “We are seeing the same God-of-Lies-who-tried-to-blow-up-Manhattan supervillain, right?”

 

“Man of Iron, do not be so quick to judge,” Thor counters.  

 

“No, it’s all right,” Loki replies as he squirmed out of Thor’s hug.  “They have every reason not to trust me.  I would behave in the same manner were the circumstances reversed.”

 

Steve, Tony, and Natasha all exchange puzzled glances, but they maintain their defensible positions.  “Then why are you here?”  Steve asks cautiously.

 

Loki shuffles his feet and holds up the turkey.  “I come asking for forgiveness very close to your day of merriment in hopes that you will be so kind as to “bury the hatchet” as you say.”

 

Natasha’s brow quirks up as she stares through the rifle’s sight.  Tony gazes at the mammoth fowl in confusion.  Steve doesn’t move.

 

“Tony!” screams a voice over the intercom.  “How many times have I told you not to move my experiments?”

 

“Kinda busy, Brucie,” Tony retorts, heedless to the furious overtones to Bruce’s voice.  “A Norse God just walked into the living room.  And it’s not the adorable, flaxen-haired oversized koala we’re used to.”

 

There’s a beat of silence before Bruce replies.  “Why is Loki here?”

 

“He brought us a turkey that could feed fifty people,” Steve comments.

 

Another stretch of silence passes as the team waits to hear back from the doctor.  

 

Just then, the Cat wanders into the living room, yawning widely and stretching in between steps.  It hesitates when it sees the hunched positions of the Avengers and the strange pale man in green standing next to Thor.  It cocks its head to the side and mewls.

 

Loki mimics the Cat’s position as his eyes narrow in confusion.  “Why do you have a cat?”

 

“That isn’t you?” Tony questions as he points at the kitten.

 

Loki rolls his eyes.  “Contrary to popular belief, I do have better things to do than transform into a tiny ginger beast and stalk you all.”

 

“I found Lord Yngvarr the High several months ago,” Thor explains quickly.  “He has been our resident feline ever since.  Anthony has suspected that you were his lordship for several weeks now.”

 

A small sound escapes Loki’s throat (witnesses describe it as a giggle, but Thor and Loki adamantly contend that “Gods do not giggle”).  Before anyone can mention it, the intercom crackles to life.  “If he cooks the bird, he can stay,” Bruce sighs and disconnects.

 

Steve slowly nods in agreement.  Tony protests loudly, but Thor is already beaming and showing Loki to the kitchen.  The god in question follows his brother, but he can’t quite take his eyes off the Cat as he takes the bird to the kitchen. 

 

Smirking, Natasha returns the rifle to its hiding place retreats back to her room.  “Someone had better talk to Barton.”

 

Surprisingly, Clint doesn’t seem to care much one way or another about “the Loki problem” as Tony refers to it when the team tells the Hawk about the Tower’s newest occupant.  He gives Steve a noncommittal shrug and goes back to firing arrows at his targets downrange, the Cat winding casually in between his legs and purring affectionately.

 

(So if Clint doesn’t leave the range much for the next two days, and orders takeout for every meal, and avoids all living areas while Loki and Thor work on their feast in the kitchen, no one really brings it up.  Which is smart, because if they did Natasha would remove various bits of their anatomy as they slept and they’d wake up genital-less.)

 

On Thanksgiving Day, Thor and Loki lay out an Asgardian feast across the kitchen table, covering literally every flat surface with huge pies, steaming soups, loaves of hearty bread, and casks of dark, strong ale.  The enormous turkey sits at the table’s centers, cooked to a crisp golden brown and filling the tower with succulent aromas. 

 

“How on earth did you manage to cook that..thing?”  Steve asks, his eyes wide with wonder at the enormous feast.

 

Tony smirks.  “My oven is magical.  It’s bigger on the inside.”

 

Loki quirks his brow at that but says nothing as Thor merrily carves the fowl and serves each member of the team.  His gaze falls, instead, on the Cat who has stayed perched on the corner of the kitchen counter, staring fixedly at the God of Lies as he cooks.  Thor hasn’t minded the adorable company, but Loki can’t help slipping away whenever the Cat sidles up to him.

 

An hour later, when the team has consumed enough food to feed a small, third-world country (because when you’re feeding a Hulk, a super-solider, two gods, a man with renowned control issues and self-abusive tendencies, and an assassin who can drink _all_ of them under the table, you need that much food), the Cat is still watching them closely with its wide green eyes that look too large for its face. Loki wrinkles his nose at it, but the Cat just cranes its head around and blinks.

 

“Do you not like Lord Yngvarr the High, brother?” Thor asks as he takes a third helping of game. 

 

Loki stiffens slightly and shakes his head.  “He’s mocking me.”

 

The team collectively quirks a brow at that one, but it’s Tony who finally asks the required “What the fucking hell are you talking ‘bout?”

 

“He’s throwing my failure in my face but wearing a visage that makes me not want to gut him,” Loki replies as he pushes a few scraps around his plate.

 

Bruce chuckles a bit, and Natasha leans forward on the table.  “You might need to explain that a bit more for us mere mortals,” she mutters sarcastically.

 The feline populace has humanity by the balls, to quote Mr. Stark.   I couldn’t do with an army what this animal does with a blink.”

 

Bruce nods sympathetically, Steve wriggles uneasily in his seat, Natasha’s eyes flit between the Cat and Loki, Tony nurses his tumbler ruefully, and Thor hums around a particularly delicious bite of potatoes.  After a few minutes of contemplative silence, Steve scoffs mutedly.  Loki quirks a brow at that. 

 

“I think you overestimate how much we care about the Cat,” Steve comments.  “Clint is pretty much the sole caretaker for it.”

 

“Speaking of which, where is Legolas?” Tony asks.  “He missed a damn good meal.”

 

The moment after the words are spoken, Loki feels something cold, slick and damp press into his ear.  He flails to the side to avoid it and finds himself falling face-first onto the ground.  He quickly rolls onto his side and sees Clint Barton hanging upside down from the ceiling, his right hand outstretched toward where Loki had been sitting.

 

The team is utterly silent for several seconds.  It’s Steve who breaks said silence with a belly-rumbling guffaw and the others follows suit afterward.  Even Natasha gives a small snort before pulling back her mask of stoicism. 

 

Loki and Thor look among the mortals with confused expression.  When they get back to Barton, he’s shimmying up the rope and back into the ceiling.  He smirks at the god over his left shoulder.

 

“Now we’re even.”

 

Loki can’t help laughing at that one.  “Dammit Barton.”

 

The Cat purrs loudly and stalks off down the hallway, pleased with its work.  And so, Clint Barton finally got his revenge on Loki.  It’s a small, petty, childlike form of revenge, but it still counts.

 

 

#

 

“Barton, stop throwing your cat at Coulson!”

 

It’s a testament to how weird day to day operations at S.H.I.E.L.D. have become because no other agents on the bridge so much as raise an eyebrow at Agent Maria Hill’s comment.  The two agents in question stare back at her, Barton’s mouth slightly agape and Coulson’s arms outstretched, holding the Cat.  Neither moves to say a word.

 

The thing is Maria Hill is S.H.I.E.L.D.’s self-appointed Queen of Puns.  Most junior agents are too frightened by her appearance to realize this however, and most senior agents know better than to comment on it or S.H.I.E.L.D.’s second in command will kindly hand their ass back to them.  In fact, the only people not actively afraid of Hill are Agents Romanov and Barton, though even Natasha is smart enough to shy away from the second in command on particularly bad days.  Barton, it seems, lacks that particular survival-instinct subroutine.

 

So, Barton could let it go.  He could heed Coulson’s ever-so-subtle headshake.  He could take his kitten and go home.  Instead, he murmurs two words under his breath and turns toward Hill.

 

“Apologies, Agent Hill.  I didn’t know I needed your purrmission.”

 

Hill freezes midstep.  An unnatural hush falls over the bridge.  Junior agents slowly back toward the perimeter of the room.  Even the Cat stops purring, and Coulson’s hand stills in its fur.

 

S.H.I.E.L.D.’s second in command slowly circles toward Barton.  The archer stares back at her with a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth and a glint in his eyes.  Hill plants her hands on her hips and widens her stance, ready for the battle.

 

“Purrhaps you’d like to run that by me again, Barton.  As I’m your commanding officer and all.”

 

Barton doesn’t so much as blink as a soft hum sounds over the crowd.  No one knows what to make of the two agents squaring off.  Some of the junior agents hope weapons come into play.  Coulson wonders how the Cat will retaliate if Clint is attacked. 

 

“Purrhaps,” Barton begins, “purrhaps not.  Either way, it wouldn’t be a catastrophy.”

 

Hills eyes narrow.  “Don’t push me, Hawk.  I can revoke your range access, and I’d do it without pawse.  Never furget that.”

 

Somewhere in the crowd, someone (probably Stark) “ooo”s, and Hill quirks an eyebrow at Barton, daring him to respond. 

 

Coulson rolls his eyes and shifts the cat in his arms.  Clint  never was one to back down from a challenge; that fact remains unchanged.

 

Barton leans forward on the railing and rolls his shoulders slightly.  “Then quit your pussyfooting and do it already.”

 

Someone (definitely Stark) cackles at that before another someone (more than likely Steve) stomps on their foot, cutting off the cackle with a sharp wail of pain.  It only ratchets up the tension on the bridge.

 

“Don’t purrtend I won’t,” Hill threatens.

 

“Hate to let the cat out of the bag, but I’m pawsitive you won’t,” Barton responds, his smirk growing wider.

 

“Insubordination doesn’t look good on you, Barton.  You’re just as transpurrent as the day you walked in here.”

 

“Isn’t it just purrfect, then, that I don’t purrtend to be.”

 

The room is near silent waiting for the next quip, but it doesn’t come.  Instead, Agent Hill’s gaze dips to her naval and her eyes narrow as she struggles for another pun.  If Barton knew what was good for him, he would leave it at that and go about his business.  Too bad Clint Barton has never, repeat _never_ known what is good for him.

 

“Cat got your tongue, Agent?”  he asks smugly.

 

Hill glares at him.  “Dammit Barton!  Get the hell outta here.”

 

Fortunately, Clint does have some sense of self-preservation.  He scoops the Cat out of Coulson’s arms and bolts off toward the range without a backward glance. 

 

Later at dinner time, Coulson comes to remind Clint to feed himself more than once a day.  As he rubs behind the Cats ears, waiting for Barton to empty the last few arrows into the target, he can’t help but ask, “Why do you always say that?”

 

“What?” Clint questions as he fires the last two arrows

 

“’Challenge accepted.’”

 

Barton chuckles slightly as he unstrings his bow and retrieves his arrows.  “It’s just something my brother used to do.  Family trait or something.”

 

Coulson nods slowly.  “It’s annoying.”

 

Barton just shrugs.  The Cat mewls happily.  Coulson knows that’s the best he’s gonna get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave any comments or questions you have! Comments will earn you teasers for the next chapter :)


	5. A Twisted Sense of Humor, An Allergy, and the Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the last chapter of this fic. I hope everyone enjoys it as much as I've enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Please leave comments! :)

Nick Fury has a freakishly weird sense of humor.  Seriously.  Numerous wars had been started because his stoic reactions to jokes by renowned comedians and his seemingly-misplaced chuckles to random samplings from the comedic underworld.

 

Stark once told him the interrupting cow joke.  ("Knock knock?"  

 

"Go the fuck away, Stark." 

 

"Seriously, you'll like this one."

 

 "… Who's there?" 

 

"Interrupting Cow."

 

 "…Interru---"

 

 "MOO!" 

 

"…"

 

 "I'll go run away now."

 

 "Thank you.")  Every member of S.H.I.E.:.D. steered clear of Fury's death glare for just shy of a month.

 

After Banner told him that joke about astrophysicists, the director took a temporary leave of absence and dropped off the grid for twelve days.  ("Amuse me, Banner.  I've had one hell of a week."

 

"I don't know, sir.  I'm not in the know on humor."

 

"… You've got to know one joke."

 

"I do, but it's…not that good."

 

"Banner, don't make me threaten you."

 

"You do know what happens when you threaten me, right?  As Stark says, I go "enormous, green rage monster" when provoked." 

 

"Oh, for the love of fucking God, can I go nowhere without him being mentioned?"

 

"Okay, okay.  I'll tell you.  How many theoretical astrophysicists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?"

 

"I don't know.  How many?"

 

"Two.  One to hold the bulb and the other to rotate the universe."

 

"…")

 

Once, Fury overheard one particularly horrible joke between two junior agents.

 

("Johnson, I read the most crazy joke I've ever heard.  You'll love it."

 

"I don't know, Calloway.  You have shit taste in jokes."

 

"This one is good.  I promise."

 

"Fine… swing away."

 

"Okay, what's black and screams?"

 

"Is this a racist joke?" 

 

"Yes, but it's totally worth it.  Trust me."

 

"…If I have the impulse to smack you, I'm not restraining myself."

 

"Okay, just answer the question!"

 

"I don't know.  What is black and screams?"

 

"Stevie Wonder answering the iron!"

 

"…That's… I…"

 

"I know!  I didn't know how to respond either!")

 

Fury guffawed and snorted at the punch line much to the surprise of Agents Hill and Coulson who had been leading the way and hadn't overheard the joke.  The Director kindly did not explain.

 

So, yes, Nick Fury had a bizarre and slightly warped sense of humor.  Being director of the largest covert defense organization on the planet would do that to anyone.  But when he walks into his office after a long day of shepherding Earth's mightiest heroes (more like Earth's mightiest crybabies), all he wants is a cold drink and a desk to rest his feet on.

 

What he's greeted with instead is a pint-sized ball of orange fluff perched on his desk.

 

Now, Director Fury had encountered the Cat numerous times over the past months, but usually those encounters were restricted to the confines of the Avenger's Tower.  Occasionally he's walk past Coulson's office and see the kitten curled up on the edge of the agent's desk while he did paperwork (generally these moments coincided with Agent Barton being assigned to a mission that lasted at least a week or longer).  But Fury can say with certainty that he's never seen the Cat in his office until today.

 

But the mere existence of the Cat isn't the most startling this about its appearance.  Neither is the fact that Fury's office is safeguarded by the most advanced security system in existence, par none.  The thing that strikes Fury most about the Cat's presence is that it's wearing a miniature, black leather cat-coat.  And an eye patch.

 

And there's a purple sticky note on his name plate, amending the spelling of his surname from "Fury" to "Furry". 

 

Fury chuckles at that.  He looks up at the air vent above the door and his stern mask slips back.  "Dammit Barton, I'm going to get coffee.  My office had better be cat free by the time I get back."

 

As he closes the door to his office behind him, Fury pretends not to hear the quiet "Understood, sir" that hangs in the hair.

 

Seriously.  He does not get paid enough for this shit.

 

 

#

 

 




 

For her sake it's too bad that Natasha's brand on scary has never frightened Clint Barton or the Cat.

 

Which is why Natasha wakes up on particularly unremarkable Saturday morning and finds the Cat's enormous green eyes staring at her.  Which wouldn't be a problem if Natasha wasn't horribly allergic to cat hair (yes, even super assassins can have allergic reactions to innocuous things; she knows a guy currently on assignment in the Cambodian consulate who can't touch bananas with a ten-foot pole). 

 

So, Natasha feels her skin prickling with hives and her eyes narrow at the animal.

 

"Dammit Barton!!!"

 

Her screams echo throughout the Tower, and Natasha storms into the living room in a thin tank top and her underwear much to the surprise of her five teammates plus Coulson.  The Cat scampers in behind her and jumps up onto Clint's shoulder.

 

"Natasha's angry and I can see her nipples!"  Tony shouts gleefully.

 

"Can it, Stark!" Coulson counters as he ducks behind Steve's chair.  "I've seen her kill people wearing less."

 

"I've helped her kill people while wearing less," Clint quipped as he leaped over the sofa.

 

Thor, Steve, Bruce and Tony follow suit, but Natasha's face is almost beet-red and perfectly expressionless. 

 

"I have had enough of that cat!  It sheds everywhere!  It poops incessantly!  It's always whining!  And being within three feet of it makes me break out in hives!  I can't take it!  The Cat has got to go!"

 

For several minutes, Natasha stands with her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at her teammates, and the men do remarkably good impressions of statues.  The Cat looks back and forth between the two opposing parties in confusion. 

 

It's Steve who stands up first with a hardened expression.  He mirrors Natasha's pose and replies with a firm "No."

 

With wide eyes, the other occupants of the room stare at Steve in shock, but slowly, one by one the others stand up and fall in behind Steve, between Natasha and the Cat.  Natasha's eyes narrow and slowly, she turns and leaves the room. 

 

They don't see Natasha for a week and a half before she shows up in the gym one day, her face slightly puffy, but otherwise she looks no worse for wear.  The Cat winds in between her feet as she stretches, and reluctantly, Natasha runs a soft hand through its fur.  Clint, who was across the gym at the time, chalks it up to some weird, most likely illegal medical procedure Natasha may or may not have had done in a backwater Russian city. 

 

The Avengers never hear about an allergy issue again.  It's probably for the best.

 

 

#

 

It doesn’t end with a cat.  By the time it ends, the Cat has been immortalized in a set of collectible trading cards and a bronze bust that lives on the mantle of the Tower.  Instead, it ends with something much bigger: a strange combination of an almost alien invasion, a misplaced pun, a pair of tweezers, a musical proposal, three shotgun weddings (do not ask),  and ten gallons of radioactive sludge.

 

But that’s another story.

 


End file.
